Page 15 of Jack Frost
"But I don't know them," he says plaintively. "I know you."
He looks so pitiful that I almost relent, but Karyl returns from the bathroom at that moment. "Whatcha talking about?" she asks, looking from one of us to the other.
"I, um—I have to go." Jack smiles at her. "It was great to meet you, Karyl."
"Sure, honey. We'll meet again sometime." Karyl nudges my elbow surreptitiously and gives me a sidelong grin that's not at all subtle. "You need a ride anywhere?"
"No, I called a car. Thanks, though." His eyes meet mine briefly, and he nods. "Emery."
He strides out the door of the coffee shop, probably to find a quiet spot where he can poof himself to his next destination.
Karyl lowers her voice to mimic his tone. "Emery."
"Shut up." I elbow her.
My Asheville apartment is a tiny pair of rooms wedged into a corner of an old building that was once some kind of factory. The place has been refurbished, and it's decent enough from what I can tell—though I only lived here for a couple of days before I left for the Antarctica trip. In the two years since graduation, I've lived in a bunch of different places, always with roommates. This is the first space I'll have all to myself, and I have plans to make it perfect.
I shove my key into the lock and push open the door. Then I sidle in clumsily, tugging my luggage with me. Karyl didn't have time to help me bring everything in—we had to stop for a couple of bathroom breaks on the way, so by the time we reached my place she had to drive straight to the hospital for her shift.
"Sorry I didn't have time to grab groceries for you, babe," she said right before driving away.
I told her that it was fine, of course, that I hadn't expected her to do that. And it's true—I didn't expect it.
Still, it's a little anticlimactic to struggle through my door into the dark, drafty apartment and flip on the light to find nothing but piles of boxes. No "Welcome Back" sign, no furniture. Not a thing except boxes, and the harsh glare of the industrial light fixture above my head, and the kitchen counter branching in a severely normal L-shape to my right.
Just a handful of days until Christmas, and I'm bone-weary and alone.
Serves me right for moving to Asheville, where I only know one person. But the conservancy project here is something I believe in, something I can be passionate about. More importantly, they were hiring. It's not much of a paycheck, but I'll make do. And I can always do freelance video work on the side, weddings and such. I've done it before.
My shoulders sag, and my bags slide to the ground with a depressing thump.
There's a bed in the other room, with sheets still on it from the two days I spent here before my trip. I'll sleep there tonight, but I need to stay awake until at least ten. It's the best way to combat the jet lag—to force myself into the schedule of this time zone.
Collecting my bags again, I lug them into the bedroom. It's the half-sandwich to the front room's whole—a strip of square footage barely large enough for a double bed. The only other bits of space in this apartment are a small bathroom and a shallow closet.
I kneel on the floor and open my suitcase, removing the bag of dirty clothes. They smell wretched. Guess it's laundry day tomorrow. I'd do it tonight, but I don't have quarters for the machines downstairs.
Something crashes in the kitchen, and I nearly leap out of my skin. Frantically I fumble in the suitcase until my hand closes around my flashlight. It's longish, and heavy. I can hit the intruder over the head with it.
My hand is shaking so hard I nearly drop the flashlight as I peer out of the bedroom doorway into the kitchen.
Jack is standing there, holding one overstuffed paper bag of groceries. The bag's lower half is dark with moisture and flecked with snowflakes. He clutches the remnants of a second paper bag in his other hand, but apparently the bottom fell out of that one, because its contents lie in a jumble on the vinyl flooring.
"Damn it," he says. "I wanted to surprise you."
"Congratulations," I gasp. "You succeeded. How did you find my place?"
"I asked Karyl where you lived. I told her I wanted to bring you some stuff—"
"Clearly we need to have a discussion about boundaries, and spiraling yourself into other people's homes without knocking, and also inserting your presence where it's not wanted."
"The eggs didn't break," he says hopefully—and then the other bag gives way, and its contents dribble out the bottom onto the floor.
Jack looks so dumbfounded—I want to stay mad, to fuss and fume at him, but I can't help it—laughter bubbles up inside me. I clap my hand over my mouth to stifle the sound—but then he surveys the half-crunched groceries and says slowly, "Aw, shit," and I lose my control. Peal after peal of hysterical, overtired, uncontrollable laughter rolls out of me. I'm laughing so hard I can't keep standing, so I slide to the floor and hold my stomach while tears ooze from the corners of my eyes.
How long has it been since I laughed like this? Months, at least.
Jack is laughing too, but mostly he looks shocked and thrilled at the effect his grocery problems had on me.
